


Happy End, The Coda

by Project0506



Series: Soft Wars Saucy Sides [9]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Biting, M/M, Multi, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24090820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: Rex has everything he wants.  A side to Ever After, Happily.  Explicit.
Relationships: CT 7567 | Rex/CC-1138 | Bacara/Kit Fisto
Series: Soft Wars Saucy Sides [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701715
Comments: 21
Kudos: 209





	Happy End, The Coda

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ever After, Happily](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999575) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 



> Erm. Explicit! Yay! *Confetti* God that was hard. Haha, hard. Ok I'm done. 
> 
> For the roxythered who wanted beefcake on beefcake KitRexCara (hmu with your AO3 and I'll gift ya!). Erm this is as filthy as I get, apparently? Yeah.... _slinks away_

They don’t have sex that night.

It’s far from a lack of desire. Rex thinks if he ever looks at Kit and Bacara and doesn’t _want_ them deep in his bone marrow, it’ll be because he’s already marched on. That night, every time he lands next to or between them for minutes or moments, he’s caught by how much Kit’s eyes are like distant galaxies and how firelight paint Bacara’s skin golden. But Rex has spent too many hours chasing a marshstalker through forests, and Kit has spent too many hours in a cramped cockpit, and Bacara has spent far too many hours surrounded by crowds of people he doesn’t know.

When they go to tumble down to rest, Rex and Bacara into their bed and Kit curled on the window seat overlooking the ocean, they’re nearly too tired to share kisses before sleep takes them.

Rex does spare a thought to finding out if Kit could sleep in the same room, if they weren’t touching. And if so, what they could do about getting a second bed in here.

They don’t have sex the next morning either.

There are almost three dozen littles piled on their couch and sitting room floor, spilling out onto the porch and down hallways. There are helpful brothers who chaperoned to direct, vats of creamy potage to warm and sides of sweet fruits to slice, empty bellies to fill both of the littles and the guardians who come get them. There’s cajoling to do, pressing packages of last night’s leftovers into the hands of whoever doesn’t protest enough.

It is early afternoon before the three of them are alone in the house.

Rex doesn’t bother to walk the three extra steps to the couch; he sinks down to the stone and wood floor with a groan.

“How was that harder than the actual hunt?” Bacara laughs, that tiny, quiet, special thing that rolls from his chest and sparks into the world. Rex is exhausted, but not so much that he can’t find those first stirrings of interest churning.

It’s not glowing by firelight, but Bacara is no less gorgeous under the noon sun. He’s always attractive, always was from the very first moment Rex put eyes on him. But now, today, Bacara stands easy in Rex’s home, his shoulders loose his eyes clear. He’s irresistible.

And Kit?

Kit lounges, all loose-limbed and centered, draped along the back of the couch like a freshly landed catch. He’s more green than gold under the sunlight spilling in through the flung-open doors, his lekku swaying like snakes about to strike. He knows the effect he has. His every shift is purposeful. He tilts his head, just a nudge, barely noticeable, and suddenly he is no longer the catch but the hunter, coiled for strike.

Rex’s mouth is dry and his pulse is racing.

Boots strike heavy vibrations through the floor against Rex’s back and Bacara prowls up to join Kit, hip cocked against the leatheris couch back.

Confident in their ability, sure of their welcome, these men could take Rex apart. He’s very sure they plan to.

“Something on your mind?” Kit purrs. He’s always been the bravest of them, in things like this. Always willing to break whatever barrier might be keeping them back. Bacara rumbles another laugh.

“Always.” He’s not as expressive as many others, not in his face, not if you don’t know what to look for. His humor lingers in the corner of his eyes, in the way his lips soften from severe. “He’s been making plans since I’ve met him.”

“Indeed? I wonder.” Kit shows more teeth today, yesterday, since he’s been in Rex’s home, than he has in all the time Rex has known him before. The slash of predator just a bit more slipped from its restraints is heady. “What would it take to quiet that?”

Rex grins, fierce. “I have a theory.”

If Bacara’s laugh is like quiet thunder, Kit’s is an ocean’s swells large and filling their space with a reminder that you can’t ever ignore him. Rex _wants_.

He’s on Rex striking-quick, faster than Rex would have thought possible, faster than he’s ever been before. This Kit, this Kit in the house Rex and Bacara built to tempt him, is showing them what he’s hidden under Jedi tabards and reserve. He’s on Rex, hands and lips and teeth and the rush of desire leaves Rex lightheaded. Kit kisses a bit like Bacara, full bodied. And like Bacara, there’s a _lot_ of him.

Rex whines. There’s stone and wood under his back and there’s the hard press of solid muscle, broad chest, sharp hips, wide shoulders, arms thick under Rex’s desperate hands. A mouth on his, a tongue on his, teeth wandering with just that little edge of less care. Rex bucks up, and Kit doesn’t even shift.

Rex was designed solid but rangy, coded gunner before he’d even left his tube. He’s strong, but not made for strength to be his optima.

Kit peels himself up like something boneless, pure predator flexibility all the way up his spine, pure predator smugness as he perches atop Rex’s hips like a claim. He licks his lips. He’s gotten a taste and now nothing could stop him from running his prey to ground. Rex reaches for him, wants to feel those wide shoulders holding his to the floor.

A hand, hot as a brand where Kit is all ocean-cool skin, lands solidly against the center of his chest. The bare inch of space he’d managed to lift himself disappears with smack. It’s as if all the atmosphere has drained from the room.

He’s spent every single day honing to be able to stand even with his brothers, his command, those coded and built for that strength. It’s a quiet little thing that united him with Jesse just that little bit closer, those mornings early on first shift when they would meet down in the gym to make sure they could do what Kix and Hardcase could so easily.

He pushes up, he _pushes_ with the core strength he’s proud of, that he built for himself. (Not his hands, no that would be cheating, and Rex doesn’t _want_ to win, he realizes.) Bacara tenses. His arm cords beautifully with clenched muscle from his wrist to his shoulder. The Marine holds him down with a single arm; Rex is pinned.

“Oh.” Kit’s trill bubbles with amusement and shaded just that hint of quiet victory. He rolls, flows like the surf up and back over Rex’s hips. “Oh he _likes_ that.”

“That right?” A knee drops next to his ear, a mimicry of that first time Rex felt Bacara’s hands on him. The memory shatters into sharp reality when Bacara’s other hand finds his neck, at his collar bone, and braces.

“Fuckfuckfuck.” Rex thrashes in the hold but he can’t go anywhere, can’t gain even gain himself a micron of leverage. Kit won’t be dislodged from his legs, Bacara’s hands don’t waver. Having and keeping, Rex has used that mantra again and again, pulling his troopers down and back to themselves and out of their heads under his hands. I have you, I’ll keep you.

Kit and Bacara have him, firmly and without hesitation. Rex wants to be kept.

“Fuck,” he chokes. “Do _not_ make me come on the sitting room floor you _bastards!_ ”

“And if we want to?” Bacara wonders. He’s not good at casual, he always shades towards obvious. Today he shades towards threat. “You couldn’t do anything about it, could you?”

Rex loses breath again.

“He _really_ likes that,” Kit reports. Kit’s knees grip Rex’s hips and slowly, too slowly, he grinds light circles into him. “So much. Has that always been a fantasy Rex? To be pinned to the floor and teased until you… fire off?”

It’s a chore, but Rex finds enough breath to laugh. “Don’t take any more lessons on dirty talk from Fives,” he orders. “Every one of those boys talks like a degenerate.” Kit grins. Rex knows that at he will promptly do so at first opportunity, and resigns himself to having to train Kit out of weapon puns.

It’s not a movement, really. More of a flex. Quick tightening of muscles. Rex has been trained his entire life to pay attention to minute shifts like that. Bacara flexes his fingers and Rex’s attention snaps to him. “Here and now,” he reminds. “No planning.”

Rex licks dry lips. Smiles, pulls up something _he’s_ learned from Fives. “Make me.”

Kit’s laugh is encouragement and Bacara’s smirk is challenge.

They’ve never kissed like this before, Bacara kneeled above his head, bowed over his mouth. It lets him hold, gives him all of the leverage. Lets him keep Rex’s shoulders to the ground with one elbow and move Rex’s head however he wants and Rex can only take it. It’s different, exceptionally so. The progression of tastes Rex has gotten used to twists just that much off center that he must explore, must find where one shades into another. It’s harder to anticipate like this, and just when he thinks he’s started to find rhythm, Bacara tilts him a little this way or that and Rex loses the trailing ends of his thoughts.

That wasn’t much of a challenge, Rex realizes idly. Bacara and Kit individually have outsize influence on him. Together, they can make him do anything. Kit presses cool hands up under his shirt, down under his pants, and spans them across his hips with intent. Rex surrenders.

Rex doesn’t open up easily. He never has. It takes long long periods of teasing and stretching, again and again before discomfort begins to shift to something manageable. Longer still for the burn to dim past ignorable to something actually pleasant. Every time, it’s almost like the first.

Rex enjoys sex, enjoys being penetrated. He loves the closeness of it, adores the feeling of someone pressed up against his back and filling him, thrills at the look of devotion on his partner’s face when he sinks down around them. He’s so much work though, he knows, and he’s confident enough that he’s not embarrassed about it. But he’s still. Hesitant.

It’s different, when Rex has planned for how an evening might go. When he’s prepared for it. But while Kit and Bacara both love his preparedness, they both also enjoy spontaneity. And Rex knows they’d never allow him to have them keep that between themselves. Not when they know he likes this, and just doesn’t want them to have to spend so much time getting him ready.

They never, ever rush him. They know for this they need time, and they’ve never once made him feel like it might be too _much_ time.

The time passes in lengthening shadows, in the air cooling just that little into the beginning of a summer evening while the white stone floor keeps its grip on the afternoon heat. They kiss, long drugging things again and again until Rex is dizzy. They trade places. Bacara above him, then Kit stretched beside him. Kit perched on his stomach and reaching behind, then Bacara curled between his thighs, pressing kisses to his knees.

They start achingly slowly. A slick finger circling, pressing up against but not inside him. Teasing flesh until it warms, relaxes, and teasing some more at the edges until Rex is panting with it. He can take more, and he knows they know. But they don’t want any step of this to hurt him.

They’re bigger than him in every way. They’ve always been so very aware of it.

They talk. Aimless things. Kit has rolled one finger deep, and Rex and Bacara teach him all the silly euphemisms that would let him fit into any trooper dorms. Kit and Rex compete to see who can make Bacara flush when he is two fingers deep and slowly pulsing them apart.

They tell him how beautiful he is. They press down on his chest and shoulders to make him gasp, hold him to the floor and let him push back against them to prove he can’t to keep him present and aroused. Bacara presses fingerprints into the soft skin of Rex’s thigh. Kit leaves imprints of both rows of his teeth on one pec.

They touch him. His mouth, his forehead, his neck, his hands, his chest. They rub his fingers between theirs, kiss places that shouldn’t sear him with want but do anyway. Kit bites softly at the crease of his thigh, just once. Not again; Rex very nearly came. Kit’s face was the sort of smug that said they’d be exploring that later.

They don’t ignore each other. When they’d started this, it feels like a lifetime of struggle ago, Rex had been the pivot between them. Slowly, like the shift of earth under their feet, they’ve melted into each other’s spaces and under each other’s armor. They don’t need to keep Rex between them anymore. Bacara loves Kit’s mouth up under his jaw, back behind his head, where his hair meets his most sensitive skin. Kit loves Bacara’s calloused fingers up under his lekku at the base, or running feather-light over his gill slits. Rex loves watching them fall slowly in love with each other’s touches, with each other.

Rex doesn’t remember exactly when they stripped him between distractions, but knows he must have been useless for it. Bacara is entirely bare but for the heated brace he wears on his right knee. Kit is down to just his lek-wraps and his glove-sleeves that protect his most photosensitive skin from unfiltered sunlight.

Rex’s limbs are all slow honey lassitude when they’re finally convinced he’s ready. The light has shaded from sharp white to warm gold and paints alluring shadows in the curves of them. Rex is quiet-minded, hand-warmed and loved.

They take him right there on the sitting room floor. They steal soft pillows from the couch for his head. The once-vibrant, now-worn patchwork blanket that was the only personal thing Bacara had brought with him, they pull from its place folded against one couch arm and spread it under their hips.

Their size differences mean that few positions work well for Rex, and Bacara and Kit both won’t allow him to be even a moment of uncomfortable. Kit nudges him up over onto his side, slips up behind him and inside in one thought-stealing motion.

There’s always that first moment when everything comes down to the points of connection, when Rex stretches wide to accept a lover into his body in the most intimate way and he grasps at them with everything he has.

Rex has found moments in many people in his life; the fate of Vode before now meant finding comfort where you could. He’s never let anyone inside him he didn’t love. And it’s because of this: in this moment he will love them, and it’s far too heavy a burden to put on someone unprepared.

Kit is a cool, steel length of pressure thrusting in, in, in, in little shivery rolls, and Bacara’s body against his means he has nowhere to go. He murmurs his love between them and they respond in kind.

Kit’s arms wrap like steel bands around Rex’s chest. Bacara clamps huge hands around his elbows, presses his thighs apart with his knees. Rex is suspended between them, helpless to do anything but take the love they lavish on him freely.

“Gorgeous,” Bacara praises against Rex’s lips. Kit groans agreement into the ends of where Rex’s hair is growing distractingly long. Rex is lost in Bacara’s bright, brown eyes, the cool press of Kit’s head against his back. Bacara’s hands roam Rex’s chest, light and hard and light again til every nerve buzzes under his fingers. Kit’s lekku spill shimmering gold and green over his shoulders, tumble past his lips. Rex pulls the bend of one into his mouth and rolls the thick muscle over his tongue.

“Oh oh force Rex.”

It’s difficult to make Kit lose composure. More than Rex, far more than Bacara. Kit is forever admiration and praise, a wondering sort of stunned at the sight of them. Enjoying them but forever so careful not to lose himself in them.

Rex tongue works free the lek-wrap around his splash of vibration sensitive receptors. It’s almost too easy to suck the lek into his mouth, sliding the lighter, always hidden skin down past his teeth.

Kit curses, low and sharp and _vicious_. He’s always careful, is always so careful, but now his hips snap up and he’s fully seated deep inside Rex with a cry. There’s nowhere for Rex to go, nothing for him to do but take Kit all the way inside him and hold. There’s starbursts of light scattering behind Rex’s eyes. It’s just the edge of too much too fast, snatched past the bounds of too careful and Rex loves him

They’ve found him, this wanting, wanton being Rex knew was hiding deep in Kit. Kit pounds up hard into Rex, takes and Rex gives, always.

Bacara is painted wonder and delight and Kit groans filth into Rex’s neck. It’s odd and strange and wonderful, when Bacara’s cheek slides up next to his, his tongue slips in past Rex’s lips stretched wide. He’s warm where Kit is cool, and the kiss is messy and uncoordinated and perfect. His tongue rolls the raised skin covering a sensor over across Rex’s. Rex slides his teeth across it.

Kit slams up into him and Rex hadn’t thought there was any more to take. His arms spasm, clench, and if Rex had a hope of moving before it is gone now under the explosion of strength that Kit has always tried to hide under the veneer of civility. His teeth clamp down on Rex’s shoulder. The second row of his teeth descends, buries, _holds_.

Something animalistic explodes from the broken skin at the back of Rex’s shoulder and darts lightning quick down his spine. Bacara jerks back in alarm at the cry.

Rex comes so hard he snaps forward, nearly in half, and grazes the edge of his head against Bacara’s chin. Kit flows behind him, curling sharp and angular against him, teeth pulling him in flush. The bite pulses pain and pointed want and with one more thrust, Kit follows Rex over the edge.

His teeth hold Rex all the way through. Bacara holds them both, gentles them down, always steady when neither of them can manage the same.

Orgasm lasts nearly forever, and not nearly long enough. Rex catches a breath, and there’s a throb of pulse at his shoulder or a clench inside his core and he shades to white again, jerks like prey caught, finds he has one more to give. Again and again until he’s wrung dry and dizzy with it. Until his muscles all unclench at once and he slumps helpless in their hold. It’s even longer minutes of sharp, snapping little thrusts before Kit shudders to stillness against Rex’s back. It’s an eternity before any of them remember how to breathe.

Rex can feel the reluctance in Kit as he struggles to retract his teeth, can feel the shame that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have words, and the breathless little cries he’s capable of help nothing. Kit detaches and Rex warbles, collapses without that support into Bacara’s steady arms.

“That was.” Kit pants. The breath raises pained, wonderful shivers over the burning skin. “Dangerous. Irresponsible.” He’s searching for rebuke, censure. For either of them to pull away first so he doesn’t have to.

Rex hasn’t come so hard in four years.

He pats at Kit’s closest lek, then at Bacara when it seems like Kit is winding himself up too much to understand. Bacara though, Bacara is far more used to wordless words. He knows how to listen when Rex is too far gone to speak. Careful hands tilt Rex’s head til their eyes meet, and Bacara blooms a slow smirk at what he sees. “We’ll be more careful next time,” he agrees. Rex kisses his palm gently in thanks.

Kit shudders his remorse. “There. Shouldn’t be a next time.”

Reliable Bacara, always knows what to say and do to talk someone down. He gently pulls Rex away from Kit, helps him turn so they are face to face. Lets Kit see Rex’s eyes they way he couldn’t. Rex’s mind is white and soft, chemical stupid and slow. He smiles, and he knows the edges of it are very nearly sloppy. “Kit.” he breathes. He wants to reassure, but all he can manage is a chest deep, heartfelt, taffy-stretched “ _F_ _uck,_ Kit.”

Kit breathes out shaky, shameful want. “Indeed,” he jokes and it’s very nearly a good fake of balanced.

“Go ahead and tell that face you won’t do that again,” Bacara orders. Rex clutches wildly at what he can reach, grips, holds, won’t let go. Rex won’t let Kit run, not after gifting them a view of his untamed self.

That was. A rush. Rex is learning all kinds of new things about himself.

His shoulder stings, then aches, as Bacara prods around the edges of it. When Rex shifts, the skin pulls. “I’ll call your medic to dress that,” Bacara rumbles. Kix will be judgmental, of course, but Rex and Bacara both know Daan still doesn’t trust anyone not-Vode and they don’t need to make either the Nova medic or Kit have to deal with that. They could dress it themselves but they’ll want to make sure it won’t scar. It’s close enough to his neck to show through his shirts; Rex’s brothers would be murderous.

“Mmph,” Rex says smartly. “Later. You didn’t.”

Bacara is still so very aroused, jutting up so hard from the brown curls between his thighs that Rex hurts just to look at him. He tugs at his hand when it seems as though he might ignore himself regardless. Rex won’t allow it. Never again, Bacara can care if he will accept being cared for in return. Rex will be fine, they can spare a few moments for this.

Bacara subsides: his stubbornness has never matched Rex’s.

Kit lies still next to them, curled tight in Rex’s arms and eyes picking out every sliver of their byplay. But even now he retreats. Rex holds him, tighter and tighter but he can feel the growing distance. Kit’s stubbornness is a match for them both. But neither have ever been able to match that strange, deep intuition of a person that Bacara carries.

“I’d love your mouth,” Bacara tells him, all quiet confidence. His thumb against the edge of Kit’s lips do what both of Rex’s hands could not. It halts him, pulls him back to them. “If you’re alright with that.”

Rex loves him, so, so much.

Kit’s whine echoes in Rex’s chest. “Bacara of Nova,” he shakes. The tremors rattle through to the very ends of his lekku and back. The one unwrapped shivers harder than the rest. “I never took you for reckless.” His words curve soft; he’s managed to pull the second row of teeth back.

“You’ll be careful.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do.”

They call Bacara The Marine. This is the man that kept Novas from breaking for three years. He told them they would stand, and every Marine found something bone-deep in them that needed to prove him right. He’s always been able to find the best in a man, and give him the trust he didn’t realize he needed to bring it to bear.

He tells Kit he will be careful. Rex knows now Kit can’t be anything but.

Rex folds himself under Bacara’s arm, the lek he’s captured and claimed as his still rolling between his fingers like a tether. Kit reaches for them with hesitation. Bacara and Rex reach back without.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Anchor Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24159544) by [Quo_Usque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quo_Usque/pseuds/Quo_Usque)




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